April & Oliver (15 page)

“It’s not that I composed like him, but I admired his nerve.”

She narrows her eyes and taps her index finger against her cheek the way she does when she’s thinking. “So is that what you
feel you’re lacking? Balls?”

He studies her.

She smiles, slipping back onto his lap. “Oliver,” she whispers, sliding her hand down to his lap. “I’m sure you’ve got more
than you think.”

He grins, pulling her face to his.

As Oliver one by one unbuttons the flannel top of Bernadette’s pajamas, April parks. She shudders, cursing the drafty car.
As she walks to her door, a patrol car cruising the train station pulls up beside her. He rolls down his window and she bends
to talk to him. His face reminds her instantly of her father, a sober version, minus twenty years or so. “No trains for the
next hour, darling,” he says.

“I live here.” She nods at the building.

“Ah, heard about the muggings, then?”

She frowns, shaking her head.

“Three this month. Two at this station, one at the next. He carries a knife and he’s not afraid to use it.”

“What does he look like?”

“No ID yet. He strikes from behind. Knows how to avoid the station cameras. He likes the wee hours, so you’d better watch
your back.”

“Right.”

“I’ll watch you go in.”

Once inside her apartment April glances at the clock. Nearly five, and the winter sky shows no suggestion of dawn. She goes
to the sink before taking off her coat and begins lathering her hand. She works the soap in and around the ring and, after
several minutes, nudges it over her knuckle. The pearl that must have been beautiful once is gnarled and grotesque. Garlic
and sapphires, hadn’t she read that in a poem recently? The
Four Quartets
? She takes off her coat, sits on the sofa with a blanket, and examines the band.

She thinks of the women who wore it, T.J.’s troubled mother and young wife. With the ring in her hand, April can almost hear
the dead women’s thoughts, especially Denise—her want of direction, her vague aspirations, her passivity. She imagines an
all-around capable person who lacked any particular talent, someone who would gladly have sacrificed adequacy in one area
of her life for the chance at greatness in another.

T.J. was her departure. Or arrival. She floated through life like a twig in a stream, happening upon a job here, a boyfriend
there, always looking for signs that it all made sense, that it was destined. She was waiting for life to find her.

When they met, T.J. was so certain they were meant for each other that she had to believe him. It was his decisiveness that
won her over. What she felt was not so much love as relief, because finally someone appeared who was willing to be her rudder.
Yes, that was it. She was far better at reacting to situations than creating them.
That
was her genius, and with T.J. she found a way to exercise it.

April awakens to loud knocking. Although it is 9 am, snow-shrouded windows darken the apartment. She has slept about two hours,
which is worse than not having slept at all. She looks through the peephole and is startled to see the detective with whom
she filed the protection order. She runs her hand through her hair, but there is no point trying to salvage her appearance.
She opens the door.

“Miss Simone,” he says. “Perhaps you remember me, Detective Arredondo. This is my partner, Detective O’Hara.”

“This can’t be good news,” she says.

“Don’t be alarmed,” says Arredondo. “We just came to talk about your case.”

“What case? I rescinded the order.”

“May we come in?”

They sit at the small, linoleum kitchen table, a hand-me-down from Nana.

“We came by last night with a search warrant,” says O’Hara. “The landlord let us in.”

She looks around and sees that they have rifled through her things. How had she failed to notice last night? Had she even
bothered to turn on a light?

“Sorry,” says Arredondo. “We tried to straighten up.”

April’s hands are clammy. She folds them under her arms.

“We were under the impression from his boss that Mr. Desole still lived at this address.”

“What has he done?” asks April.

“It’s like this,” says Arredondo. “We’re updating our computer system down at the precinct, and some enterprising data-entry
gal turns up your file in a stack of misplaced papers. And not knowing any better, she enters your protection order as new,
and boom, a cross-check turns up from a precinct in Salt Lake City.”

“I’m not following.”

“If we’d had this system in place when you came in, it would have turned up then. It’s only dumb luck that it showed up now.”

“We believe the man you filed against, Timmy Desole, is wanted in Utah,” says O’Hara.

“Tommy,” she says. “Thomas John.”

“Timothy Jason.” O’Hara slides a photograph across the table. “Is this him?”

April sees what must be a younger T.J., grinning. Beside him is a woman, dark-haired and young, with a scant, fragile smile.

April shakes her head.

“Is that a yes or a no?” says O’Hara. He is the sterner of the two, tall, with a fortyish face to contrast his snowy hair.

“It looks like him,” she says.

“We stopped by his employer’s house yesterday,” says Arredondo. “Not something you want to do on Christmas night. But you
can understand how we might have been concerned for your safety. He gave us this address, but it looks to us like he’s moved
out.”

“He’s been renting a room near the wharf in Freeport, but he’s gone now. He left at four this morning.”

O’Hara stabs his pencil on the tabletop.

“Can you give us that address?” Arredondo slides her a pad.

“You haven’t told me what he’s wanted for,” she says, writing.

O’Hara gives her a look. “Not everyone rescinds their charges,” he says. “Not everyone has the opportunity.”

Her skin goes cold. She glances back at the photo, the girl’s edgy smile. “He told me she committed suicide.”

Arredondo leans closer. He has mink-dark hair, olive skin, and a hideous leopard-print tie. “We think she had a little help.”

April’s stomach sours. She pops up and paces around. “Are you sure?” She faces him. “Could there be some mistake?”

Arredondo takes her in, his warm brown eyes contrasting with O’Hara’s cool impatience.
They probably get a lot of people to cooperate this way,
she thinks. “Are you really so surprised?” O’Hara says. “Given the way he treated you?”

April folds her arms around her middle. She was upset because her grandmother noticed the black eye. She had to miss a day
of work, not because it hurt but because she was embarrassed. You can cover bruises with makeup, but swelling is another story.
So she filed the protection order. It was a knee-jerk reaction. It wasn’t like she thought he was actually dangerous.

When she doesn’t answer, O’Hara shakes his head incredulously.

“You see, April,” Arredondo says, “your silence makes it look like you’re protecting him.”

She looks at the picture. “He said he loved her.”

Arredondo picks up the small writing pad and slaps it against his palm. “Apparently a little too much.”

April sighs. “He said he was headed to the Midwest or Texas. That was as specific as he got.”

Arredondo glances at his watch, and she sees him thinking, Route 80 West, 95 South, there were a dozen or more possibilities.
“Still driving the same blue pickup?”

“He was yesterday.”

“We figure if he’s going to contact anyone, it will be you. Did he say anything to that effect?”

“He said he would be back for me. I told him not to.”

She notices O’Hara glance at the knot in her robe; it’s true what T.J. said about the fifteen minutes. Quincy taught her as
much.

“I’ll help,” she says. “I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“Including you,” says Arredondo.

“I don’t think he’ll be back,” she says.

Arredondo hands her his business card and folds her fingers over it. “Don’t be so sure.”

T
HE AWNING ABOVE TATTERS FRANTICALLY
, making it difficult for Oliver to hear what Bernadette is saying; something about lilies versus daisies. The notion of seafood
under the stars had seemed right for this first day of spring warmth, but not long after they arrived at The Blue Marlin the
wind shifted, bringing sharp salt air off the ocean and wildly flipping the pages of the florist catalog between them.

“I’ll get your sweater from the car,” Oliver suggests, folding the book. “We can look at this in bed tonight.”

“Should I order you dessert?”

“Just coffee. You look too cold to sit here much longer.”

She nods, rubbing her arms, and stares at the raucous ships moored in the harbor, clanging and bucking like tethered colts.

Oliver tosses the bouquet book into the backseat and grabs Bernadette’s cardigan. As he locks the car, he notices a white
Camaro in the next row. He goes over, though it is out of his way, and glances in the window. Buddy’s high school tassel hangs
from the rearview. He straightens abruptly and stares back at the restaurant. Cool air sifts through his hair, rippling his
shirt. He stands for a moment without knowing what he is thinking.

He has not seen April since Christmas, when they fought in his father’s bathroom, an argument he has since put out of his
mind. What comes back to him now is not the words they spoke, which he can’t recall, but rather the way her presence charged
the room, the threat of her nearness. He decides not to look for her.

Inside, he glances around. He sees a table of college kids writing on the back of a place mat, a young man patting a woman’s
pregnant belly, and an older woman tittering at an old man’s joke. Oliver feels removed from these people so engaged in the
moment. He wonders what has happened to him that his mind is always elsewhere.

Someone yells to him. It is the old woman, waving her cane and calling his name. He tells himself she looks amazingly like
Nana, but cannot accept it is she until he reaches the table and she kisses his cheek.

“Oliver, it was like a vision. I was just telling Mr. Bergfalk about you, and in you walked. I thought I was dreaming.”

The man stands and shakes Oliver’s hand. He is a good fifteen years younger than Nana, well dressed and smart looking. “To
tell you the truth,” he says, “she talks about you all the time, so it’s not such a coincidence.”

“I see.” Oliver smiles. “So you’re sick of me already.”

“Not at all. But I probably know more about you than your fiancée does.”

Oliver glances at the back veranda, remembering the sweater in his hand.

“Bring her here,” says Nana. “You can get Mr. Bergfalk’s approval.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, handing the waiter his credit card. “I already like her from the photographs.”

Oliver smiles uncertainly. “I saw April’s car in the lot.”

“What a doll,” says Mr. Bergfalk. “This was her idea, you know, a once-a-month date night with her as chauffeur. Last time
it was an Italian place.”

“Mr. Bergfalk can’t drive on account of his prosthesis,” says Nana.

“Well, I could if I had the right kind of vehicle, with all the expensive doohickeys. I’ve gotten used to buses.”

“She’s in the bar,” says Nana. “Go tell her we’re ready to leave.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you out front.”

When Oliver reaches Bernadette, she has his suit jacket over her shoulders. “I was just going to look for you,” she says.

“My grandmother and her gentleman friend are here. Why don’t you go say hello while I pay up.”

“Do you think she’ll remember me this time?”

“She adores you. Go on. I’ll be right there.”

After she leaves, Oliver steps into the bar, swarming with Knicks fans. A play-off game is on, causing thunderous eruptions.
It takes Oliver a moment to spot April at the end of the bar; he must have walked right by her. He sees the predictable dark
lipstick, dangling earrings, clingy sweater, but something gives him pause. She rolls a glass of club soda between her palms,
staring at the television. Beneath her vague expression of interest, Oliver sees something else. He stares until all at once
it appears like an inverse image in an optical illusion. Her expression has not changed, yet the same lines that drew a picture
of indifference now spell bone-crushing grief; she has been carved out, marauded from within.

He raises his hand to his chest. It feels like spying to catch her so unguarded, yet he cannot stop.

A man beside her is talking, leaning close in an effort to get her attention. Finally, he puts his hand on her back, and the
ruin on her face sinks out of sight like a fish in a muddy stream. She nudges away and pulls from her purse a tip for the
bartender. She glances at her watch, starting to stand, when all at once she stops. She lifts her eyes and looks directly
at Oliver across the bar. Did she feel him there? They stare for a moment, acknowledging that he has slipped, uninvited, into
her space.